


Winging It

by matchstick_dolly



Series: Matches After Midnight [9]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autofellatio, Episode Related, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Gen, Humor, Light Angst, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, POV Lucifer, Post-Episode: s03e02 The One with the Baby Carrot, Season/Series 03, Sexual Content, Wing Kink, Wings, fapping and flapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly
Summary: The doctor recommended he learn to accept his wings. Lucifer can't see how that's bloody possible, but since he's stuck with them, they might as well make themselves useful.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Lucifer Morningstar/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Matches After Midnight [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620778
Comments: 50
Kudos: 208





	Winging It

**Author's Note:**

> For [Fuckruary 2020](https://freakyfebruary.tumblr.com)'s "Autofellatio" prompt. Thanks to [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary) for a beta-read!

The last human in the favor line slid from the black leather stool with a smile on her face. Never let it be said Lucifer Morningstar didn't know how to please a woman, even if said woman had a trite desire for a husband and true love and all that bloody nonsense. Lucifer wasn't in the business of _correcting_ desires, no matter how absurd, only in fulfilling them—for a price, of course. He now owned a forty percent stake in a vape shop that hipsters and would-be ex-smokers couldn't get enough of.

"Thank you," the tattooed blond said again, clasping her hands before herself. "It's just so hard to find something _real_ in L.A., you know?"

"Yes, yes." Lucifer waved a hand, ignoring the twinge in his chest. "I'll find you the perfect dullard to ride into the sunset."

The Devil was back in business. Take _that_ , Sinnerman. 

With his favor-giving done, staff returned the stool and the booth he had occupied to their proper places. The club needed to be in tip-top shape to reopen in a few hours, though Lucifer had no intention of gracing the masses with his presence. He felt like having a quiet night in; there was an entire season of _The Bachelor_ he needed to catch up on. Maybe call up the Brittanys or perhaps that yoga instructor he met on the set of that gosh awful puppet show. Lexy was her name—so many hookers' names in L.A.

As he rode the lift up to the penthouse, the high of fulfilling desires wore off rapidly, leaving him empty and agitated. A tingling sensation pestered his back, nearly driving him mad every time he dared focus on it. Not that he had much say in the matter. The sensation hit him like Kanye's opinions on Twitter—impossible to ignore, regardless of whether he wanted to or not.

In the penthouse, he gravitated to the bar, where he poured bourbon into a glass. And then poured some more. And then gave in and drank straight from the bottle.

Linda and Amenadiel couldn't see it, but _he_ knew. The wings were a _bad_ sign. That his devil face flew the coop right when he got them was an even worse sign. Some invisible clock, or perhaps it was more like a _bomb_ , was ticking down on his retirement. Dad was gunning for him, _molding_ him, as he had Noah and Job and Moses and Samson—as he had poor Eve and her cursed daughters, most of all. Never a good thing when the Almighty Himself was wielding a weapon. Even worse when the weapon was you. The longer the wings stayed, the more likely Lucifer would wake one morning and discover he _wanted_ to be a good little foot soldier for Daddy, a yes-man like all the other angels. Like he had once been, too.

The last thing he needed now was another impostor trying to steal his identity.

He fumbled with his cigar box of drugs, cut a very long line of coke, and snorted it deep. It hit him hard and fast, like all the purest snow did. His focus sharpened, bringing the penthouse into that delightfully weird hyperreal space, where colors were truer, and he felt...well, not _good_ , but tolerable. Almost.

Perhaps a shower would help. 

Swallowing around the numbness in his throat, he wandered into his bedroom, shedding clothes as he went, his dick growing hard from the coke. He passed through the hallway and large wardrobe, into his golden-tiled bathroom. Leaning into the black marble shower, he twisted the taps into a desirable position, his doppelganger following him in the adjacent mirror. He pulled away from the warming water and turned toward his reflection, to the broad chest and sinew and hardening length between his legs.

With a frustrated growl, he lunged forward and slammed his palms onto the vanity. Leaning over golden vessel sinks, he glared into his double's dilated pupils and reached into himself, hunting for the dark whispers that had been his downfall. The whispers that said he could go and do and be anything he desired—God be damned. But if those voices were still with him, he couldn't hear them. His eyes darted back and forth as he looked over his angelic face. It was a perfect face, a _God-given_ face, and a part of him wanted to excise it, too.

Linda entered his thoughts. _Accept that, for_ now, _you don't have your devil face._

Steam began to gather at the edges of the looking glass, and he turned and entered the shower. The water was hot—far too hot for human skin, but a delightful tingle for the Devil. He washed methodically, his body already coming down from its high. Without the pleasant buzz, he spiraled even more.

Who was the Sinnerman? How did he know _so_ much? How had he _taken_ so much? He had to find him and punish him. And—and on and on his mind went.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Lucifer shut off the water when he was finished washing and got out of the shower. He wrapped a bath sheet around his waist and sighed as his erection tented the soft, black cotton. Occasional side effect of devil's dust was a hard-on that couldn't take a hint. Usually he didn't mind—it wasn't as if he didn't fight pocket rockets on every damned case with the detective—but this was one of those rare moments when he wasn't even in the mood, exactly, and yet... 

Right. Well. No getting around it. 

Lucifer meandered back into his living room, grabbed the remote to his sound and lighting system, and plopped down onto his leather sofa, legs spread wide. After turning the lights low and starting up some chill beats, he yanked his towel open without preamble.

"Hello, old chap," he huffed down at himself. 

The Devil's knob was perhaps the most reliable figure in the universe. Whether chilling at his thigh or drawing up to his flat stomach, it was a nice cock. Not too much and certainly not too little of anything. Long, but more _intriguingly_ long, not _take-shelter_ long. Girthy, in a worth-the-initial-effort kind of way, not to the point of pain. Uncut and unblemished, a prominent vein or two. Highly desirable, and he should know, given his many partners and that tiny portion of his money that, in recent years, had come from a particular mold that went to market. The silicone dildo, marketed as Neo-Sin, was sold in hot pink, purple, and turquoise, and had five-star reviews. He had fucked himself with the purple version and would mostly recommend the product and absolutely recommend himself.

Slouching and resting his head against the back of the sofa, he slid his right hand down his waist, over the sharp V of a hip and a dusting of closely-trimmed hair. Closing his eyes, he took his cock in hand and began to shuffle through his favorite fantasies, most of them memories, some very old, some quite new. Women and men from all manner of eras, dressed in everything from crude animal skins to layers studded by buttons, bound with ties, or puffed up by petticoats. 

There was also his old favorite standby, _Hot Tub High School_. It was a wonder the DVD still worked, but it wasn't as if he even needed it; each scene was burned onto his soul. 

And then there was the Preferred Fantasy, the one he tried to avoid because he wasn't one to torture himself with things he couldn't have. But it had a way of popping up when he was alone and polishing devilwood. 

It started from a memory. 

The detective was nestled against him, snuffling in her sleep. She was warm and curved and fit into his side in a way that made him feel—well, he didn't even _know_. But it did _something_ to him. He didn't dare move, lest he disturb the cuddling. In general, he was one for after-nookie cuddles, but _before-nookie_ cuddles were practically unheard of for him—and there was a very good chance he wasn't going to have it off with the detective at all. Maybe in the morning... _Hopefully_ in the morning.

Minutes turned into a half-hour, and still she slept. An hour in, Lucifer stretched out his legs, kicked off his Oxfords, and closed his eyes. He was on the cusp of sleep when the detective let out a raucous snore that seemed to come up from her toes. His eyes snapped open, and he held his breath, struggling not to laugh. And then she did it again. It was an appalling snore for a woman of her size.

Damned if it didn't remind him of Yllka, a lovely Albanian field wench he'd plowed amongst rows of potatoes in the sixteen hundreds. Tiny woman, ginormous melons, snoring that could wake the dead and start a zombie apocalypse.

Several loud snorts later, the detective jerked awake as if an alarm had blared in her skull. She pulled away, leaving him cold, and looked blearily around the room.

"It's all right," he said, and touched her shoulder. "You're safe."

She mumbled something, slouching over her knees, still plainly plastered.

"Pardon?" He leaned forward to try to see her face.

"I _said_ ," she started, abruptly standing and yelling, "it's too hot in this five-star hellhole!"

It was so uncharacteristically absurd and open for her that Lucifer burst out laughing. She glared at him.

"All right," he said through laughter. "I hear you, Detective." He stood, and she looked up at him with an expression that was far less guarded than he was used to, which gave him pause. "I'll-I'll get the aircon going, shall I?" He wasn't laughing anymore. 

Generally, he liked to keep it warm in the penthouse, partly due to preference—you didn't rule Hell for millennia without building up quite the tolerance to heat—and partly because knickers dropped faster. Not the detective's knickers, though. The only thing tougher to get past was Heaven's gates. 

As if the detective was in his head, she looked down at herself and scoffed. "I _never_ wear pants to bed. Why am I wearing pants?"

Lucifer smirked and tucked the knowledge away. "Now _there's_ a question I've been asking myself." He was opening his mouth to make another joke when suddenly she stumble-marched across the room whilst throwing her red flannel tunic over her head. " _Detective_?" he choked out, his voice going an octave higher than usual. 

It didn't stop there. She yanked off her boots and dropped her jeans. She was wearing blue beneath it all. _Blue, blue, blue_. And he knew it complemented her eyes, and now his aching balls—and, _oh dear_. Swallowing, he turned his head and focused on his balcony like his existence depended on it. He wasn't even sure why. He'd seen her naked. 

"Would you like jammies?" he croaked. "I'm sure I've got—"

"Ish _too hot_!" she complained again. 

"Right. Well—"

He knew another item of clothing had come off when something slammed into a piece of furniture in his bedroom. He put a hand to his head. Chloe Decker, star of _Hot Tub High School_ , fit LAPD detective with enough pent-up sexual energy to burn a house down, was _stripping_ in _his_ apartment, mere meters away. And he wasn't even watching! What the hell was wrong with him?

The detective's bare feet slapped against the tile floor as she gracelessly ascended the stairs into his bedroom, presumably absolutely bloody starkers. Linens snapped and rustled, followed by the soft _fump_ of a body falling to a mattress.

Chloe Decker, star of _Hot Tub High School_ , was in her knickers—was _naked_?—in _his_ bed.

Lucifer turned, dazed and pained by want. Her red flannel lay strewn atop his piano; black jeans lay crumpled at the instrument's feet. Two boots were nearby, toes knocked inward. And there... Blue knickers lay at the base of his bedroom steps, calling to him. He wanted to wear them on his bloody face. 

Now this was where the memory morphed into delicious fantasy. He wandered into his bedroom, as he had done in reality, but instead of taking an immediate turn toward his shower, where he knocked one out in abject misery, Lucifer imagined the detective sitting up in bed, miraculously sober. 

She threw aside black sheets, revealing creamy white skin. "Come to bed, Lucifer," she said, and scooted to the edge of the mattress. There, she drew up her knees and spread her legs, and behold, _Detective_. Glory, glory, hallelujah. 

Lucifer knelt before her and snaked his tongue into the secret depths of her garden. Two hands soon clutched his head, pulling his hair in a way that _hurt_ , in a way that only she could. She crossed her ankles at his back and rode his mouth, making his lips and chin slick. He yanked open his fly and tugged on his cock as he worked with her. He loved working with her in every way, but eating her out beat cool ranch puffs on a stakeout by a bloody mile. 

There were a hundred ways she might moan, but in his fantasy she moaned _this_ way only for him. Moaned and babbled as if she were developing a new language for him to unravel. 

Her clit was a hard little pebble beneath his tongue when he finally lay a palm above her public bone and pressed down. The detective gasped, canting her hips, and cried out, "Lucif—" 

Lucifer's wings flung wide behind him, springing into corporeal existence and pushing him forward on his sofa like a usurper ousting him from his throne. His fantasy collapsed like the Maya civilization. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he yelled over Portishead. 

As he scoffed at the multitude of porcelain white feathers surrounding him, he felt his erection soften infinitesimally in hand. He glanced down at his cock, annoyed.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said with a hard jerk. "You wouldn't go away before. You'll go away when I'm done with you now."

He eyed his wings with a thoughtful scowl. Linda wanted him to accept them, which was bloody impossible, but...perhaps he didn't have to _accept_ them or even ignore them entirely. Perhaps he just needed to find a _use_ for them.

Well. 

He'd done it a few times before, in a desperate attempt to get off in Hell before Maze had come along. He'd actually never tried it on Earth... 

Lucifer glanced at the ceiling. "If You're keeping tabs on me, now might be the time to look away, Old Man."

After a quick scan of the penthouse, he decided one of the outdoor ottomans would be the most accommodating furniture for the job. Sucking oneself off required a big dick, an inordinate amount of flexibility and balance, and preferably a rib abnormality. Two out of three wasn't bad. With the aid of his wings and the right cathedra, he'd be in business. 

He shuffled outside, wings out, cock bobbing. Lifting a large, square ottoman, he chucked it inside, behind the sofa, and plunked down on it, wings flaring behind him, toward the balcony. He grabbed hold of his cock with a grin. The thought of sucking himself off had put him back in the mood and almost made the wings bearable. If anything, the one downside to being a sex god amongst humanity was that he was tragically aware nobody gave head like he did. He wasn't even sure Maze, who seemed to consider breathing optional, could pull the tricks the Devil could, though he'd never say that to her face. 

Squeezing the muscles buried beneath his feathers, he jabbed his wingtips down to the black-tiled floor, shuddering slightly when feathers splayed. Wriggling his hips forward, he bent at the waist experimentally and curled his back and neck like a swan. Even with the wings improving his balance and his devilhood stood at a proud twelve o'clock, this wasn't an easy maneuver. For several long moments, he breathed slowly through his nose, encouraging his muscles to relax and stretch.

One final, deep breath, and he was _there_. His lips pressed against the head of his cock and enveloped like a warm, wet glove. He curled his tongue, swiping at the sensitive frenulum, and sucked, hard. Moving up and down, he used his right hand to perform the work his mouth couldn't. Behind him, his back and wings ached as he pushed himself harder, until the head of his cock hit the back of his throat and slid a tiny bit farther. He swallowed around himself, feeling almost faint.

Gosh, he was good. Maybe the wings could stay.

Lucifer continued to work himself, the effort becoming easier by the second. Inevitably, his thoughts returned to the detective on his bed, her long, muscled legs spreading wide, her body welcoming him. And he could almost pretend that his own suckling was her lips—above or below, it didn't matter. His imagining the detective seemed to do something significant to his play, as his whole body suddenly grew more sensitive. There was even a deep ache in his back, ribs, and wings, but he ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the pleasure. He was very close.

The elevator door glided open, and someone yelped. Bloody hell, he needed to do something about that. Unlatching from himself with a sloppy pop, he looked up. The flirtatious joke forming on his wet mouth died as he found himself staring into wide blue eyes and a gaping, kissable mouth. The detective was dressed in what he'd come to think of as her after-work mumwear, clothing that was entirely unflattering, and yet somehow no less enticing to him.

"Oh my— _Lucifer_!"

And damned if that wasn't _exactly_ what she screamed in his fantasies. And, oh, no. No, no, no. His left hand grabbed hold of the ottoman, while his right gripped just beneath the glans of his cock in utter desperation. Lucifer clenched his muscles for all he was worth, but it was too late. Too, too late. And this was _the detective_. Seeing him. Seeing _everything_. His mouth fell open in a silent groan, in awe, and then he was coming. It was not a light orgasm. This was one of those orgasms that came from the top of his head and the tips of his toes to meet in the middle and try to wrest his soul from his body. 

Come went everywhere. It hit his chest, it smacked against the underside of his chin, it fell to his thighs, and finally, when he nearly had control over himself once more, it dripped to the floor. His vision whited out briefly, and there was ringing in his ears—two terrifying sensations he'd never, ever experienced.

" _Detective_ ," he croaked, and watched, paralyzed, as she stumbled toward his bar counter. 

"You have wings," she gasped. "And you... _Wow_ , that's a lot of—" A hysterical laugh bubbled out of her as she grabbed hold of the counter, her knees buckling.

"Detective!" Lucifer stood, holding out a hand, and drew his wings back into his body at once.

" _Whoa_!" Chloe yelled shakily, her light skin paling. "Can you stay"—she sank to the floor on her rear—"there? I think I'm just..." She slouched over, her eyes rolling back as her head fell into the crook of her arm.

Lucifer stared. "Well, fuck."

Though his wings were tucked away, he glared over one shoulder as if to communicate to them that they were flapping on borrowed time. Linda, he thought. He'd call Linda. The doctor had got him into this mess—he looked down at himself—well, _figuratively_ speaking. She could get him out.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Made in His Image](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22970743) by [matchstick_dolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly)




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